This morning, my oldest child headed out to her last-first day of high school. It’s hard to believe she will graduate this year, and even though I still have two more children with plenty of growing left, it makes me feel as though the biggest chunk of my life is quickly drawing to a close.
I think guys working at repair shops sometimes have difficulty with the concept, “making an appointment.”
Or maybe they think customers need to learn that the word appointment really means “preliminary-sizing-up.”
On this, the last day of her television show, Oprah might say her plan all along was to become an invisible conduit through which you, the simple viewer, could just believe in yourself—but don’t you fall for it.
Underneath the sincere sweep of false eyelashes is a brilliant saleswoman, an excellent actress and a shameless self-promoter, a woman whose wealth and power has been built by our belief in her.
A funny thing happened while I was writing today’s main blog about Randy Pearlstein’s Writing for Comedy workshop. I was in the public library, intending to write over my lunch hour and headed for my favourite spot by the large windows in the reference section upstairs.
In April this year, during Frye, the popular annual literary festival in Moncton, New Brunswick, I attended a workshop called “Writing for Comedy.” The speaker was Randy Pearlstein, a Toronto native who now lives and works in New York City.
Dressed in jeans, blazer and blue Nike skater shoes, he looked like an updated version of Jerry Seinfeld. (Who, by the way, Pearlstein quipped, is “a bit of a dick.” Let’s hope the six readers of my blog don’t tell Jerry that Randy dissed him.)
This past weekend, an elderly relative died of cancer. He had made it clear that upon his death there would be no funeral and no visitation. Since the family is not close, it didn’t surprise me, but I was still disappointed. His wife, who had died a couple of years before him, had stipulated the same thing.
This March Break morning, my daughter woke up in her room next door, and said, “good morning.” Not by popping her head out of the door and stumbling to the bathroom, mind you.
She said it on Facebook, cause she saw we were online, too.
How do you cure children of faking sick? You make them stay in bed, that’s how. Both my husband and I had to get to work this morning and since our seven-year-old son informed us he was “kind of sick,” my husband agreed to stay home for the morning, and I would trade places with him in the afternoon.
A couple of months ago I attended a screening of the locally-produced film “A Question of Beauty” (first released in May, 2010) at a fund raising event for Project Under the Tree, a charitable Christmas function hosted by the Moncton Business and Professional Women’s Association. Seen through the eyes of female artisans and writers, the […]
I’m going to confess something now that will reveal once and for all how cranky I really am, but I can’t hold it back any longer. Please hear me, grocery store clerks, gas station attendants, librarians, food servers and retail sales associates: I am not your “dear,” nor am I your “sweetheart.” Those terms are […]
